


This is not mine, But I want it to be (rewrite)

by ExcellentlyEllen



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Grant is good, Pulse - Freeform, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-10 15:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13504308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExcellentlyEllen/pseuds/ExcellentlyEllen
Summary: This is not a redemption story, because where he's from, he doesn't need redeeming...





	1. Pologue: The battle is lost

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody,
> 
> I'm posting this, because it's a rewrite of the original story (that got left in the cold a little too long). I wanted to start writing it again, but my own words didn't sound like me anymore, and I wasn't happy with the flow and direction of the story.
> 
> Don't worry, it's still the same premiss, I just have a much clearer direction in which I want this to go, and hopefully you guys feel the good vibes as well..
> 
> I don't know if anybody is still interested though, but I guess I'll find out after I hit Post...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes by losing a battle you find a new way to win the war."

** Prologue: The battle is lost **

****

The room around him seems loud in the silence. Now that the battle is over, and everything has died down, the lack of noise is stifling and heavy with meaning. The air tastes coppery and the smell of blood mixed with gunpowder makes his stomach turn. They fought, took a stand and gambled away the lives of countless people, on the off chance they might come out victorious.

The bodies of his friends, _his family_ are scattered around him, broken and bloody, their lifeless eyes staring into the unknown. He feels a sharp pain of loss slice through him, and can’t help the tears that stream down his face. Grant doesn’t particularly care that he’s showing his enemies weakness. Even now, he can’t even consider love and compassion and the connections he’s made with others as a weakness, unlike others. Those qualities have always been his strength, his footholds in a world that constantly shifts and tilts, and he won’t let anybody take this moment of grief from him.

They knew, going into this battle, that they might not come out of it alive. That they would probably lose, not just their base but their lives. And even though he has to face the empty eyes of his people, he’s sure they did the right thing. He knows, _knows_ they would agree if the roles were reversed. At least this way, they gave the others a chance. They gave their lives, so the rebellion could survive. Even if all their careful planning ends here, they should still consider that a win.

While Grant’s never considered himself to be particularly noble, he can very much see the honor in that. And now that it’s all come to a close, at least for him, he’s feeling at peace. He did what he needed to do, protected those who will win this war eventually, he balanced out the red in whatever ledgers he might have had. And he can finally join his wife, wherever she may be. His eyes slip shut at the memory of her dark chocolate eyes sparkling with mischief and the way she used to flip her long brown hair over her shoulder before she kissed him.

“Tsk tsk tsk…” At the sound of that voice his eyes slam open again. He knows that voice like his own, but it no longer sends chills up and down his spine. It doesn’t invoke the same dread it once did, doesn’t bring up the same hate and anger that kept him going before. Grant’s always known that he’d end up here, like this. At the feet of the man who murdered his wife, and destroyed his family before it even had a real chance of starting. He knows that every other person in this room had the order to keep him alive, just so his foe could have the satisfaction of breaking him and then killing him. Which is what they’d all banked on, what they had predicted with a certainty that bordered on psychic. And if indeed every other contingency they put in place fails, Grant will still get the vindication of frustrating and enraging his enemy before he can finally rest in peace.

But, while they might have known this day would eventually come and counted on it being _this_ battle, he’s not going to give the other man the upper hand. Grant may be beaten physically, mentally he’s strong as ever. He won’t break and he won’t reveal anything. There’s nothing in his mind that will further Mindhunter’s agenda. He’s not a stupid man, and his organization is far from stupid as well.

“You’ve been tricking me, like that would ever stop me. You must have known by now, that I’m more powerful than you will ever be, with or without my abilities.” There’s a condescending lilt to the words, and so much triumph in Mindhunter’s voice, Grant’s sure that if he had anything in his stomach, he’d be barfing all over his nemesis’ shoes. Suddenly he’s sort of regretting not eating anything at the pre-battle feast they’d had.

One last hurrah, his best friend had called it. Their final chance to be with their brothers and sisters in arms, their family and friends before throwing themselves on their proverbial (or in some cases literal) swords. But he’d been to worried to eat anything, maybe still hoping there was a chance for them to make it to the other side. There wasn’t.

Mindhunter’s forces flooded their base with everything they had and the fight had been over before it really had a chance to start. And now here Grant is, at the feet of the man he despises, who’s gearing up for his grand victory speech – like all megalomaniacs tend to do – seemingly defeated.

Well, he’s down, but it’s Mindhunter’s mistake to think that’s the same as defeated. They wouldn’t have done _this_ , sacrificed themselves so irreversibly, if they didn’t have at least one ace left up their sleeves.

“You think your stupid technology will save you from me? We’ve took down every last one of those blocking beacons. There’s nowhere left for you to hide, least of all your head.” The voice is harsh and evil, and for a moment Grant wonders how he could have ever trusted this man standing before him, how he could have confided in him, all those years ago. Then again, the man he is now, is not even remotely the man he was so long ago. They might look alike, but they’re not the same people. They found that out the hard way, learned there was nothing left of the man they loved like family.

“Considering who the inventor of the tech is, I’m reasonably confident that it’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to be doing,” Grant manages to grunt.

He took a beating during the fight, and his yaw feels like it’s severely bruised, maybe even broken and talking feels like agony. But he wouldn’t be himself, wouldn’t be the man _she_ had loved, if he didn’t at least try to bring the other man down from his victorious high horse.

Mindhunter tilts his head to the side for a moment, considering this. Then his eyes take on a whitish hue, and frown lines appear on his face.

There’s no telltale sign of intrusion in Grant’s head, no probing pressure like he’s felt before, no sharp pain from somebody invading his mind. His memories and feelings remain solidly his own, and he smiles. Because there had been no way to test the tiny, implantable version of the blocking beacon, not without tipping off their enemy. But his faith in his best friend had been warranted and the swell of pride and love widens his smile even more.

They had taken their precautions, of course. They knew Mindhunter would keep him alive last, would relish in the fact that he was the one that broke down the leader of the rebel force. So, in case the chip failed, Grant hadn’t been included in any of the plans, except for the one they had just executed. He had no idea where the new base was, no clue where the last members of his forces had snuck off to and had no way of knowing what the steps were beyond, be a diversion and probably die doing this.

But their failsafe hadn’t been necessary, judging from the intense look of concentration and frustration that was now gracing Mindhunter’s face. The older man cursed harshly.

“This is impossible!”

Grant laughs. As full and deep as his broken ribs allow him, at least. They never expected to win this, at least, not the battle itself. But Mindhunter should at least have been smart enough to know they would never set themselves up for losing so greatly, if there wasn’t a flip side to the coin. And losing this fight, being seemingly defeated by their enemy, would also be their biggest win.

“You should know better than to underestimate us by now.” Grant says, infusing his limited speech with as much pride as he can muster. “After all, we’ve been standing against you for years. We must be smart enough, considering.”

Bloodshot eyes filled with rage lock onto his own. “You are nothing but ants, waiting to be crushed under the soles of my boots. Pesky annoyances, yes, but no threat against _me_. This day all but proves that, your ranks have been cut down, every single person in this base has succumbed to my forces. There’s not a single soul left alive, and soon you will join them. But first I want to know everything that you do. If there are any more rebels out there, I will find them, and you will help me do that.”

Grant shakes his head. “I won’t. You’ll never get anything from me. This blocker is safely implanted behind my ear, and as long as it remains where it is, you’ll never get so much as a mental “fuck you” from me, you half-baked, double-flipped jackwad.”

Mindhunter’s fury and hate is suddenly replaced by a calculated look. He creeps closer, tugging on Grant’s hair to pull his face forward. Then he twists it harshly, and spots the fresh scar that is located just behind his foe’s ear.

“You just made your last mistake, GG, and you and the entirety of your rebellion will suffer for that.”

Mindhunter pulls Grant up, by his hair, and wraps his other hand around Grant’s neck. Somebody nearby hands him a knife, and he moves in behind Grant’s ear.

His entire focus, and that of all of his men, is on the task at hand, getting the blocker disabled, so every one of the rebel secrets gets revealed. Nobody is watching anything other than their target’s ear, and the knife moving towards it.

It was a gamble, and a big one at that. Grant’s never liked relying on so many variables for a plan to succeed, but they know Mindhunter and they knew he’d never resist breaking Grant himself. He had worried that Mindhunter would see through his ruse and take another course of action, but he needn’t have worried. The man’s ego is reliable in its predictability. And so, Grant gets to do the job they started this all for. He gets to deal the final blow, the rebellion’s big win. He brings his right hand up towards Mindhunter’s chest and flicks the little switch that’s on his tactical glove, just below his pinky finger. The thin, steel blade slides free and straight into the heart of his captor. In his victory, Grant doesn’t even feel the pain where the blade cut through his own skin, emerging form it’s hiding place beneath the flesh of his right arm

Mindhunter’s eyes go wide, and for a minute he looks like the man he was before, like the friend and father figure he had been, before his hand loosens around Grant’s neck and he starts to fall backwards.

Grant’s left hand comes up and grabs the back of Mindhunter’s neck. They lock eyes, strong, dark peering into fading brown. “We win,” he whispers into the dying man’s ear, “this is for Skye.” He twists the blade and slices it upwards, cutting open the top half of his nemesis’ body.

The last thing he’s aware of, is the cocking of several pistols around him, _“Skye, I’m coming…”_ is the last thought that flicks through his head before his mind goes blissfully black.


	2. Chapter One: This is not where I left off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you don't know where you are going, any road will get you there."

** Chapter one: This is not where I left off **

The first thing he realizes when he wakes is that his whole body hurts, but not as much as it should, considering the bullets that must have hit center mass. Mindhunter’s forces may be badly trained and sadistic, even they couldn’t miss a target _that close_ , point blank.

The second thing he realizes is that he can still realize things. Which, given his first thought, shouldn’t be possible. Again, _point blank shots_. But he doesn’t feel like he’s been shot, and he’s got too many memories of how that feels, so he couldn’t possibly have forgotten. It’s also weirdly quiet around him, a stark difference from the firing guns he remembers.

He reaches out with his senses, tries to catalogue his surroundings but there’s nothing there. There’s no smell of blood or gunpowder, instead the air around him smells musty and dusty, and he’s got to suppress a sneeze when it tickles his nose.

There are no sounds, other than his labored breaths and the screeching of some kind of vermin in the background. No voices whispering or shouting, no feet scurrying around, no breaths other than his own. Grant shifts a little, but he can’t feel anything besides the filthy cement floor he’s lying on.

He sucks in a breath, coughing when the dust hits his lungs and flinching because of the pain. No reaction anywhere around him. So, he reaches out with his sixth sense, the one he’s had ever since San Juan, and _feels_ for vibrations around him.

What he finds throws him off slightly. It’s not just the _nothingness_ he feels, no human vibrations anywhere near him. The vibration he does feel, the vibe that is the earth itself, seems a little… _off_. It’s not by much, and if he hadn’t had these powers for as long as he has, he might not even notice it. But he has, and he does and the millisecond difference he feels throws him for a loop even more than the lack of humans around him.

He finally opens his eyes to find himself somewhere he doesn’t think he’s ever been before. There’s no real way of knowing that, of course, he’s lying on the floor of a generic abandoned warehouse, but he always trusts his gut. And right now, his gut is telling him that he’s someplace _else_. He can’t for the life of him figure out _where_ exactly, but then again, he’s just lying in the middle of a dirty floor. If he wants to find out where he is, he probably should, you know, move.

He gets up gingerly, minding the broken ribs he’s sporting. Once he stands he takes stock of both his surroundings (not much to see, an empty warehouse with dirty floors and dirty windows) and his physique. He’s pretty sure he’s got 2 or 3 broken ribs, his ankle’s sore and probably badly sprained and he’s got several bloody gashes all over his body, the least bad one of course the one he inflicted on himself.

The cut where the blade had sprung free from his arm is about 2 centimeters wide but it doesn’t go deep. There’s a little blood around it, and it looks a little dirty from the filth around him but all in all it’s no more bothersome than a papercut. Not that he’d expected anything else considering the idea and the execution of the flexible but sharp blade, the spring-loaded release and the careful subcutaneous placement had all come from his favorite and brilliant scientific duo.

He feels a pang of sorrow thinking about his friends, wishing he didn’t have the images of them lying in a pool of their own blood, burned into the back of his eyelids. He knows these visions will haunt him for the rest of his life, one he’d hoped would have been cut short just like theirs. But Grant also knows that they died for ‘the greater good’, a phrase he genuinely hates, but one that fits none the less. And his friends, no _family_ , wouldn’t want him to guilt himself over what happened. They’d planned and executed their plans together and he’d never take from their bravery by piling unwarranted blame on his own shoulders.

He rubs his hands over his face, wincing a little when the motion causes a slight stab of pain to shoot through his head. There’s dried blood on the left side of his face, a gash near his hairline and he’ll have one hell of a shiner in a while, but he’s alive and walking.

Slowly he makes his way around the space he’s in. The building he’s in looks like it might have once been a packing company. There’s piles and piles of moldy, half eaten cardboard in one corner and strewn around the floor are fibers of heavy duty packing rope. The undisturbed dirt on the floor tells him two things. One, it’s been at least several months since anybody has set foot in this building, and two, he didn’t walk into it himself. The spot he’s standing in is the only one that looks remotely disturbed, and there’s a vague man-shaped spot that’s a little cleaner (but not by much) than the rest of the floor.

It's almost like he just… appeared in the middle of the room and dropped down. Which isn’t as impossible as it might sound to anybody else except for Grant, but he’s seen to many weird and supposedly impossible things to discount anything without further investigation. He knows his abilities were still developing, still growing. And while he’s never managed to open a portal big enough to transport a human trough, it is theoretically possible. At least, that’s what Leo always told him, right before he blacked out from the effort of trying.

He leaves the speculation about the how and continues to focus on the _where_ of it all. There are two small doors in the back of the space and one set of hangar doors opposite them. Figuring it best to check out his surroundings first, he leaves the hangar doors for what they are and moves towards the others. There’s minimal light filtering in through the high windows, but whether that’s due to the time it is (he’s got no clue, his watch stopped working at some point during his… _whatever_ ), or because of the filth that is clearly caked on both the outside as well as the inside of the glass, he doesn’t know.

And it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s enough light for him to see that there’s nothing of use for figuring out where he is in either the tiny storage closet or the grungy looking office he encounters. The only evidence of life around the entire space are the pigeons up in the rafters and the scurrying of rats in the walls.

The building has clearly been abandoned a long time ago, and everything of value had been removed with the closing or possibly stolen afterwards.

Grant limps back out into the main room and slowly makes his way towards the rusted out double doors. He considers them for a moment, before deciding to just open them. If there’s anybody out there (which he can’t sense), they’ll expect him to come out so there’s no point in trying to obfuscate anything.

He throws his full weight at the doors and they start to come apart with a deafening screech. _Well, even if I was trying to be stealthy, they sure as hell heard that._

When the doors are wide enough apart, he slips through and takes a deep breath before he starts to cough. While the outside air is deliciously fresh, his lungs are a little raw from all the dust and his ribs protest the action with a sharp reminder to be careful in his movements. The lot he finds himself on is a generic, run-of-the-mill, space nested in what looks to be a rundown factory district.

He’s flanked by several other warehouses, each one looking even more glum than the one he just emerged from. For a moment he contemplates finding higher ground, eying the building’s exterior to see if he could scale it to get onto the roof. But in the end he decides it to difficult with all his injuries, and he’s not in the habit of expending energy he might need later.

There’s nothing about his surroundings that feels familiar, and this type of industrial zones are a dime a dozen in any big world city. For all he knows, he’s not even in the US anymore.

Grant picks a direction and starts limping. Now that he’s outside he can tell it’s nearing nightfall, and he’d rather not be out and vulnerable when the darkness falls completely.  
His progress is slow going, partly because of his injuries and partly because he’s exhausted and hungry. The fight at their Headquarters feels like it’s been ages ago, and he’d not eaten anything since at least 12 hours before that. If he can’t find shelter or food soon, he’ll probably just drop down right in the middle of these deserted streets.

He chuckles ruefully. Surviving what he’s gone through only to end up dying from hunger and exhaustion in the middle of the street seems like an anticlimax. He’s sure that if Skye’d been here, she’d outright laugh at the irony of it all. He keeps walking on auto-pilot while his mind wanders to his wife and what she would think of him now, how she would make fun of this whole situation, trying to bring levity back into it.

She was good at that, his wife. At seeing the humor – self-deprecating or otherwise – in every situation. She’d been the real reason the rebellion was even a thing. Her refusal to give up on SHIELD and the family she’d created for herself was what had gotten them all to rally behind her. Even if that refusal to give up on anybody is what ultimately got her killed. He thinks she would have been proud of him, of their team, for doing what needed to be done. But she would probably also be mad as hell, for trying sacrifice himself the way he had planned.

It’s not that he’s got a death wish. No, he’d carried on without her, trying to live up to her image of him, despite the hurt and pain he was in when he lost her. She’d once said that true love stories never have endings. He’s tried every day since he’s lost her to live up to that, trying to keep her alive in every way, least of all in the way he fought for freedom.

In spite that though, he’d all but accepted the fact that he was going to die. Had made peace with it and had looked forward to seeing his one true love again, in the somewhere that she was. He’s not a guy who’s into religion or the afterlife or any of those floaty things, but after he lost Skye, he just couldn’t believe that somebody like her would just _stop_ existing.

He likes to think now, that everybody he’s lost is somewhere around, looking down on him and keeping themselves busy with running commentary of his life. Probably in comfy chairs and with a big, never-ending bucket of popcorn. The pang in his chest from before acts up again, when he realizes they’d need to add several more chairs. Leo and Jemma, Barb and Lance, … Everybody he’s ever loved, ever considered family is gone, and he’s never felt as alone in this world as he does right now. Even if he’s not completely sure this world is actually his own.

Despite his slow movements and his wandering mind, Grant finds himself in an area of town that is at least marginally better than the area he woke up in, if only for the signs of actual habitation that surrounds him. While the buildings and streets look as filthy and dilapidated as they did in the industrial zone, there are signs of people living here scattered around him. Empty McDonalds cups litter the sidewalk and broken bottles are lying haphazardly on the street. There are lights on in some of the windows and he can hear voices somewhere above him.

If he had the strength to use his powers, he’s reasonably sure he’d find multiple people around him. But he’s too tired and weak to even attempt anything other than stumble forward. He briefly contemplates ringing one of the doorbells, but this is not a part of town you randomly ring doorbells, and it is certainly not a part of town in which you randomly open doors for strangers. He might not know exactly where he is, but that is a truth that’s universal for every big city in every country and he’s got no doubt it’s also the same in every world.

“Hola, cabrón! ¿Qué estás haciendo? What are you doing man!” The voice comes from behind him, the English thickly accented and slightly confrontational. Grant sighs. He’s not in the mood to start anything, and he sure as hell isn’t in any shape to fight off the local drug dealer. So, he keeps walking. He hears a clicking sound, one that he identifies immediately as the repetitive flicking of a butterfly knife, and he picks up his pace as much as he can with his ankle.

“Yo, bolillo! I was talking to you!”

The flicking sound moves closer, and he can hear several pairs of footsteps behind him. He sighs again. If those guys are gearing up for a fight, he’s got no choice in defending himself. Like he’s not going to go down from hunger in the middle of the street, he’s sure as hell not going to let some bad-ass-wannabe and his cronies get the best of him. He’s probably been in worse fights with worse injuries, but he’s not looking forward to throwing down with these guys.

“You guys really don’t want to mess with me today. I’m having a really bad one and I’d hate to take it out on you. So, how ‘bout we just pretend I’m not here and leave each other alone?” He knows the chances are slim to none that they’d go for that, but he’s at least got to try to get out of this without throwing a punch. It’s been a while since he’s seen anything that resembles a street gang, seeing as how drugs and guns are the least of his worries, but he still remembers enough about the way they operate to know that backing down from a fight is considered weakness.

“Yeah, no can do güero, you’re trespassing on our turf. So, it’s either pay up, or shut up… permanently.” There’s some chuckles at that, like the leader said something not at all clichéd, and Grant turns around. He can tell they all instantly shrink back a little, because despite his disheveled look and bruises, he’s still over 6 feet tall and about 200 pounds of pure muscle. His opponents look to be late teens, early twenties with baggy pants and oversized shirts. Some of them are wearing bandanas on their heads, some caps turned sideways. All of them are holding knives of various lengths.

“Yeah, no, that’s not going to happen.” He says, trying to speak loud enough so they can hear, without jostling his very bruised jaw.

Grant can see the attack before the gang even moves, and not because he’s using his abilities. They telegraph their movements so clearly, he’s reminded of Skye when she was his rookie agent. No matter how many times he told her to stop being so obvious about her moves, he could always see them coming from miles away.

It’s the same with these guys. They rush him, thinking that having a weapon means their opponent is no match. But Grant has learned, the hard way in some instances, that a weapon only does you good if you know how to handle it. And besides, Grant’s been trained from the time he was 4 years old, so he doesn’t need a weapon, he _is_ one. And all of that is without his special abilities taken into consideration. Not that he can use those abilities at the moment, but tired and hungry or not, Grant makes quick work of his attackers.

The first one goes down without doing much, he just lifts his fist and the kid practically runs right into it. The two that rush him from the side are badly coordinated and he just steps backwards, out from between them. Their balance is off and before they can alter their trajectory, they stab each other in the gut with their outstretched knives.

One tries sneaking up behind him and only realizes his mistake when he’s being flipped over Grant’s shoulder, and gets knocked out by a well-placed elbow to the nose, before landing on his back in front of Grant’s feet.

The gang’s leader in the only one still standing, and he’s looking between Grant and his men on the ground, before dropping the knife and fleeing back where he came from. He’s lucky all of his buddies are unconscious on the ground, because running away from a fight is a sure way to get yourself demoted, or killed.

“I told you it was a bad idea to do this,” he mumbles to one of the knocked-out guys as he searches the kid. Finding a wallet, he shakes his head when he sees the kid’s age, only 17 years old and already wasting his life like this. He takes out a couple of bills and drops it back onto the guy’s chest. He’s not in the habit of stealing, but he’s got no wallet of his own on him and he’s reasonably sure that he’ll have to pay for food in the near future.

He keeps limping and after what he feels like is days, but can only be an hour, tops, he finds himself in a busy part of town, with – blessedly – a diner right across the street. He knows he’s looking a little worse for wear, but maybe he can use the gang as an excuse and hopefully get left alone while he rests and eats something.

He stumbles inside, thankfully the diner is nearly empty, and drops down into the first booth he comes across. It’s a typical American establishment, black and white vinyl floor, white Micra covered tables and frequently patched up red seats. He’s never been as happy to get his feet stuck to sticky floor as he is at that moment, and he lets out a sigh of contentment.

“What can I get you darling?” An older, slightly rumpled looking waitress is standing besides the table, looking at him with pity in her eyes. She doesn’t comment on his appearance, but he can see in her eyes it’s not the first time some poor guy stumbled in here after getting it rough out on the streets.

Grant fishes the bills he took earlier from his pocket and sighs again, this time not so contently. “What can I get for $3?”

The waitress shakes her head a little before answering. “Either a coffee or a sliver of pie,” she says and there’s something akin to sorrow in her voice.

“Just the pie, then,” he answers her. Staying hydrated is important, but if he doesn’t eat something soon, he’s going to just tip over. He can probably make way with drinking some water from the tap in the bathroom before he leaves, so it’s best to spend the little cash he’s got on food.

He must have been in his head a while, because suddenly there’s a plate entering his field of vision, and the delicious smell of scrambled eggs floats around his head. He looks up to see the waitress – Donna – standing beside him again, holding out a plate of eggs and a carafe of coffee.

“No offence sugar, but you definitely look like you could use something a little more substantial than a piece of pie.” He moves to object, he doesn’t have the cash for what she’s brought him, and he doesn’t want to start anything again. But she shushes him before he can get his protests out. “It’s on me. You look like you’ve been dragged through hell a few times over, and I’d rather not have to explain to the cops why there’s a beat up dead guy in one of my booths. So, you just eat, and be on your way.” She drops the plate on the table, fills the cup before him with coffee and moves towards another table.

He’s 100 percent sure she’s not helping him because of a story she wouldn’t even have to make up for the cops, should he indeed drop dead, but he can’t for the life of him understand why she’s being so… nice to him. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, and he quickly polishes off the plate and the cup, before leaving the money and heading back into the night.

It takes him another half hour to reach a part of the city he recognizes. Well, sort off. It’s not exactly the same as he remembers his own New York City, but it’s close enough to the city he knows that he’s reasonably confident that that’s where he’s at. He marvels at the differences he’s spotting both big and small, like the vendors that line the street, selling anything from hotdogs to waffles, or the guitarist that’s playing for change on the corner. He sees buildings he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen in at least a decade, like the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, and other he can’t spot no matter how hard he tries.

He remembers a conversation with Leo, from a long time ago.

_“Just think of all the possibilities Grant! You can feel the vibration of this very reality and bend the space and time of it. So, if you can do that, what’s to say you can’t go back in time? Or, maybe even into another reality? Oh god, the possibilities. We should start training you as soon as possible, Grant, you might be the key to fixing this whole mess._

He was to confused about the way he’d just pulled the milk out of thin air, from the fridge all the way on the other side of the kitchen, to think much about what Leo was babbling about. Grant already had trouble with his _own_ reality, let alone thinking about travelling to others.

But despite his hesitance, they’d in fact started training, only to find out that training something you can’t see and don’t really understand is a very difficult thing indeed. Leo had remained convinced that Grant could go back in time, or travel to other realities, but calculating the science was different from actually doing it, and when other matters became more pressing, they’d dropped their research.

Now though, the only thing Grant can think is, _did I travel back in time, or to another universe?_

In the end, it doesn’t much matter. Either way he’s got to find people who can help him, hopefully Leo and Jemma, or anybody else from his team, and the smartest way he can think of is by going to HQ. If he’s back in the past, the Playground will be empty save for Koenig, but he’ll at least get a chance to communicate with the rest of them. If he’s in another reality? Driving won’t actually cause any harm, so…

He moves into one of the side streets and spots a beat-up sedan, that’s looking like it could fall apart at any minute. Grant shimmies open the door and hotwires the thing in under a minute, before calmly pulling onto the street.

He takes the back roads towards Albany, avoiding the toll roads like the I87 or the Taconic State Parkway. It means more than double the drive time, but it’ll save him from doing something reckless to avoid paying toll.

When he finally reaches the woods of Cherry Plain State Park, he shuts off the engine and gets out. If this is the Playground, if anybody is here at all, they’ll have seen him coming from miles away. He’s not sure what kind of welcome he’ll receive, but anything is better than being alone in a place he doesn’t know.

When the ICER round hits him right in his busted ribs, he gets a fraction of a second to regret thinking that, before he succumbs to the blackness once again.


	3. Chapter Two: Hearts live by being wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being shot isn't all that it's cracked up to be... pun intended.

**_ Chapter Two: Hearts live by being wounded _ **

Grant’s eyelids flutter open and closed, his eyes roaming around him wildly, not focusing on anything. There are flashes of color moving in and out of his field of vision, but the world keeps shifting in and out of focus. His mind can’t concentrate on any of the things his eyes are seeing, like it’s been disconnected from his senses. The only thing he _can_ do is feel, the agony with every tiny movement, every stilted and superficial breath. The only thing he can understand is the fact that he can’t really breathe and that his head feels like it’s slowly being ripped open. He can’t really move, his limbs feel heavy and lethargic, like they’re not really attached to his body anymore.

_I would rather my chest wasn’t attached to me anymore. Or my head._

He’s lying on the ground, the cold, hard wetness from below his back is seeping deep into his bones, leaving him shivering. Tremors move up and down his whole body, jostling every single wound he’s sporting and leaving him in frozen torment.

 _I’m dying_ , he thinks to himself. _Please, let me die, please, please, please…_

Suddenly the blue above him comes rushing down onto his head and he tries to throw up his arms to cover his face, but they don’t respond to him; and he pays a heavy price for flexing the muscles in his chest. He feels something sort of shift inside his body, and the pain he was in just seconds before quadruples. It feels like somebody just stabbed him repeatedly with burning hot pokers. His breath, that was already shallow, is now even more labored and painful.

The plus side, he’s no longer as cold and soggy and the surface beneath his back is softer and has more give to it. He feels his Kevlar being lifted from his body, and with it goes a little bit of the pressure from his chest. Next, his shirt is split open, but he can’t tear his mind away from the ache that is simply breathing, to make sense of it all.

He thinks he can hear a gasp, but he can’t tell if it was him or any of the moving blobs around him. It doesn’t really matter anyway, if it was him, he can feel he won’t be gasping much anymore. He can feel the fight leaving his body, can make his peace with that.

Something sticky is attached to his chest and a sudden beeping sound fills the air around him, erratic and unsteady. In the back of his mind he recognizes the sound, knows it’s keeping in time with his own heartbeats. If he were more alert, not as focused on feeling like he was dying, he’d know he was _actually_ dying. The sound of the monitor is too fast, too irregular, not normal. But at it stands, he’s too busy praying for it to end, instead of hearing that his prayers are being answered.

Despite hurting everywhere, he still feels the tiny prick of something in his arm. It’s a strange thing to feel in the midst of everything else, but it’s so _different_ from the other things he’s feeling that his mind is stomped for a fraction of a second, until he can feel the ice making its way through his veins. Everything he felt numbs down, and he can feel his heart slow down, in time with the beeping noise. His eyes stop moving so fast, giving him more time to see, to understand. He blinks, slower each time, his vision blurring around the edges.

He sees familiar faces around him, watching over him, guiding him. That, more than the pain and the darkness that’s calling, convince Grant that he really is dying this time. Maybe he’s been dying the whole time, and his mind just wasn’t ready to believe it yet. It’s ready now.

 _Finally_ , he thinks. He’s not afraid of what’s to come, doesn’t mind the idea of dying. He’s done his part, nobly given his life for the cause he still believes in, with every strained beat of his heart. Gave up whatever was left of his life, so that his people had a fighting chance at freedom. Besides, there’s nobody left in his world to go back to. Everybody he’s ever loved, his friends, his _family_ is dead. They all died for this ideal, this notion of freedom. Grant feels like it’s only fair that he gets to do that too. It’s his reward for going through what he’s been through, for surviving after his world crashed down around him.

He’s tired of fighting, of looking over his shoulder every minute of every day, waiting for shit to hit the fan. He wants to rest. And most of all, he wants to be with his wife again. Wants to brush her long brown waves from her face and tuck them behind her ear, before kissing her with every ounce of feeling he’s got. With every bit of love he has ever felt. He wants her smile and her laugh and her sarcasm, hell, he’ll even take their fighting over something stupid. As long as she’s with him.

He can see her now, standing off to the side. Dressed in no nonsense tactical gear and with her arms crossed over her chest. There’s a look of detached anger on her face, like she’s upset with him for dying but doesn’t want him to see how upset she is. He smiles, because despite the hurt he’s feeling all over, he can’t not smile when he sees the love of his life, standing there, looking whole and safe. And he just… lets go.

The beeping – that had become even more erratic – stops and is replaced by a low, monotonous tone. Grant doesn’t pay any attention to it, he just lets the cool, soothing blackness take over.

***

He didn’t think dead people dreamed, but he does. Maybe, when you _just_ died, your brain still fires its electrical pulses. Maybe it’s a way to calmly transition the dead and dying into the _after_. He dreams about voices, some that warm his heart with familiarity and love, others that freeze the blood in his veins and leave him cold. He doesn’t understand what they’re saying, nor does it really matter. As long as he can listen to them some more.

“… ruptured liver and spleen…” – “…massive internal bleeding… - “… punctured lung…” – “… too much strain on his heart, causing cardiac arrest…” – “stable, but critical…”.

Grant dreams about hands on him, brushing trough his hair and over his cheek. He lets himself imagine it’s Skye, coming to take him away, to where the pain isn’t going to find him ever again. He can almost hear her voice. _“…dying, just let him…” – “… better off without… safer…” – “… can’t stand… look at his face… want to punch…”_.

He hears the fire in her voice, like it had been when she was still around. Her righteous indignation when he’d done something he knew wasn’t really to her liking.

His mind provides him with all the images he’s been keeping locked away in his “Skye” box. He’ll see her soon, so it doesn’t cause him pain and heartbreak like it would usually do.

_The beautiful girl sits in the back of a dilapidated van, stealing power and internet from the café she’s parked behind. Her eyes are like almonds, big and slightly oval shaped, framed by lashes that seem unnaturally long. Her full lips part in surprise, before they turn into a sour pout. He’s almost sorry about the black bag he puts over her head. Almost, until she opens her mouth._

_She uses all her tricks to get him flustered, and sue him if it’s working, he’s a 23-year-old guy. Flesh and blood, despite her claims he’s a robot. She’s all curves and seemingly soft skin, creamy and flawless. For a second, he wonders how it would feel under his hands, under his mouth, before he puts those thoughts back into a box._

_He hears about her going to the Academy through his mother, and wonders if that’s going to change her outlook on life. She was so adamant about “government stooges” and “the truth will set us free”, he can’t really see her fitting into the rigorous life of the training. He hopes she won’t lose that fire that’s burning in her._

_After not seeing her for months, it’s almost physical hell to feel her up close like this. He’d volunteered for the mentoring program, in the hopes she’d be assigned to him, but now he wonders why he’s put himself through this. He helps her study, helps her walk though simulations, but he can’t touch her, not the way he’d like. She’s still bright eyed and spunky, and despite having frequent write-ups about her behavior, she’s an Academy favorite, wrapping even the toughest of instructors around her finger._

_He’s on his knees before her, looking up at her face through hooded eyes. He’d never expected her to feel the same about him, but she’d ambushed him with a kiss and he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t fight his feelings for her anymore and he finds he really doesn’t want to. His hands roam over her curves, up towards the naked skin of her lower back, while he places open mouthed kisses all over her abdomen. He takes special care around the line of stitches feeling both angry because she got hurt, and grateful because if she hadn’t, they probably wouldn’t be here. Yet. He pushes her back gently, urging her to lie on the bed behind her as he settles in between her thighs._

_***_

When he opens his eyes again, he’s disoriented. The image of Skye, perfect and soft and _alive_ is still very much on his mind, and he wants to reach out to grab her. His hands don’t go very far, and the harsh bite of metal on his wrists pulls him more firmly in the here and now.

The space around him is dark, the only illumination a green hue coming from a machine beside his head. His eyelids feel like sandpaper, and he has to blink a few times to get rid of the dryness.

His head still feels like somebody’s playing the bongos on it, but the pain in his chest has lessened to a dull throbbing. He still can’t take a deep breath without putting unwelcome pressure on his ribs, but it no longer feels like an elephant has settled itself on his chest. He can tell he’s been in medical care; there’s bandages on his abdomen and he can feel the pull of stitches when he shifts a little. He’s lying on something that gives under his weight, and the stiff and scratchy material he’s covered with brings up an image of white, frequently washed linens. Add to that the faint smell of antiseptic and the beeping of the monitors, he’s pretty sure he knows where he is, even if he can’t really see much.

_So, a hospital, then._

They must have dosed him with the good painkillers, because he’s feeling floaty and detached, like he’s looking down at some dude who’s injured badly as opposed to actually feeling the injuries all that much. He feels better, yes, but only marginally, his movements are to restricted and despite it keeping the pain at bay, he doesn’t like being drugged. There’s still a pressure behind his eyes he can’t blink away no matter how hard he tries; and when he turns his head to the side, the room starts swimming around him and his stomach lurches unpleasantly.

_Okay. So, definitely a concussion. At least a couple of broken ribs. What else?_

Grant can feel stiffness and swelling in his jaw, no doubt from the punches he took during their big showdown. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, it’s painful and limited in motion, but he doesn’t think it’s broken, just bruised.

_That’s a relief._

Broken jaws, when not treated correctly and swiftly, could cause a whole lot of problems afterwards, and he’s grateful that he won’t be subjected to those problems any time soon.

_If I can help it._

He can feel the pull of stitches near his hairline, remembering the bullet that had whizzed by his head, leaving a ferociously bleeding cut. He recollects the way the blood, seeping into his eyes had hindered him while fighting off Mindhunter’s goons. Recalls the feeling of despair when the bullet passed him without any real damage, and the guilt that followed that line of thinking. It had been selfish, him wanting the bullet to shift slightly to the left, especially considering the job he’d had. But in that moment, he’d wished for a quick death, something he knew he wouldn’t get at the mercy of Mindhunter.

His right eye is also slightly swollen, but he can open it a fairly well. Considering the brass knuckles that his attacker had donned, he’s lucky his eye socket isn’t broken. Of course, that was mostly thanks to Lance, who’d tackled the man from behind, causing his blow to glance off Grant’s face without much damage.

 _“Wouldn’t want anything to mess up that pretty face, now would we.”_ He’d winked at Grant while saying that, before jumping back into the fray. And taking a shot in the back just seconds later. The sight of Lance, dropping to the floor, blood dripping from his mouth as he tried to talk… It’ll haunt Grant until he himself draws his last breath.

His arms and legs feel fine, except for a few minor cuts and bruises, although he can’t really tell because of the chains that limit his movements. He does feel bandages around his ankle, and he sighs in relief.

_At least it’s not broken._

All in all, he feels pretty okay for a guy who thought he was going to die at least 3 times in the past however long it was.

His attention shifts from his body to his surroundings, at least what little he can make out in the darkness. Instead of walls, there’s glass all around him; making Grant feel a little like a fish in a bowl. And a lot weary.

Beyond the windows, there’s more darkness; an endless pool of black, interspersed with tiny red and green dots. He can’t make out anything, and it leaves him feeling isolated. He’s pretty sure he’s not alone here, wherever _here_ might be, because who’d patch somebody up and then leave him chained to a bed to eventually die of starvation.

_Well… who besides Mindhunter would do that, anyway._

Inside the glass walls, he can make out the room’s sparse furnishings in the green light coming from the monitor. The bed he’s in is a generic hospital contraption, with white-ish plastic side rails to which his hands are cuffed. He’s clothed in a standard gown, the flimsy fabric doing little to protect him from the chilliness that’s common in hospital rooms. The sheets he’s under have also little or no effect on the draft, merely itching over his legs.

_Of course. The time you can’t scratch, everything starts to itch. It’s like a universal truth. Or maybe even a trans-universal truth… who knows._

Beside him is a heart rate monitor, showing a regular – if a little high – heartbeat, a slightly below average blood pressure and not enough oxygen in his blood. From what he knows about how to read these machines anyway. He never really did pay enough attention when Jem explained this stuff to him.

Above him is an IV-bag, slowly feeding more of the painkillers into his arm through the thin, plastic tube that’s securely fastened into the top of his left hand. The steady _drip, drip, drip_ of the fluid into the drip chamber is soothing in it’s monotony.

There are no chairs in the room, no bedside table, not even a TV. It’s not a room built for comfort, he can tell that much.

Grant shuts his eyes again and takes a breath, as deep as his ribs will allow him. He tries to feel for the vibrations around him, but he can’t reach them. He feels they’re there, but it’s like there’s a wall between him and his abilities. Which means that whoever took him, knows he’s got powers and is actively blocking his access to them.

_Well, it’s not the worst situation I’ve woken up in._

He tries to recollect the last thing he remembers. Standing in front of Mindhunter, his adversary’s blood coating his hand as Grant’s blade slices its way up his torso. The way the guns behind him cocked and him preparing to welcome death. The way Skye’s beautiful face and beckoning hands welcomed him to the other side.

Grant shakes his head – big mistake, his vision swims and his stomach lurches again and he’s got to swallow down the bile that’s trying to make its way up his esophagus – to clear the cobwebs. There was more, after that. He woke up once before. In a… He wracks his brain, trying to come up with the answer to his own question. He was somewhere moldy and dusty, abandoned. He remembers… boxes and dirt… _a warehouse._ He woke up in a warehouse, all alone. And after that… kids? An altercation for sure, and … eggs, maybe?

Driving. He remembers driving, hours on end, heading for… heading for…. God, he knows this! He does. He was on his way to… _the Playground_. Had he made it? Did he crash somewhere before arriving and got transported to a hospital somewhere?

 _No,_ he thinks to himself. _There was more after that. What was it? I got to the forest, I’m sure of it. I was wondering about the reception I’d get when I got out of the car. There was a bird, maybe?_ His eyes shoot open. _An ICER. I got shot by a S.H.I.E.L.D. ICER._

He’s both relieved and angry they shot him with an ICER instead of live ammo, because while the ICER rounds are non-lethal, they pack a serious punch. And leave the victim with a hell of a headache as well. Dendrotoxin in the bloodstream has made plenty of grown men cry for their mothers, he’s witnessed that for himself on several occasions.

Suddenly there’s movement outside of his fishbowl, and the lights all around him turn on. He has to squeeze his eyes shut against the painful glare of the fluorescent bulbs. There’s a whooshing sound, and Grant turns his head slowly and carefully to the left and opens his eyes a sliver.

“Oh good. You’re up.”

There’s a flatness to the words that make it clear the person that’s talking isn’t actually happy that he’s up, and the dryness with which it’s delivered reminds him of mother. It’s not her voice though, but it’s one he recognizes anyway. It makes him certain he’s either in the past, or in a different world all together, because he can still feel the stickiness of the blood that coated his hands and arms after the blade had slid through the body. Besides, if he was still in his own time, and he’d somehow failed in his mission, he’s reasonably sure he’d not be awake. He’d be buried in a shallow ditch somewhere, left to rot.

His visitor enters the room, obnoxiously dragging a chair along with him. The sound of the metal legs against the polished concrete grates on Grant’s every nerve, just like it was intended.

The scraping stops when it reaches his right side and he turns his head to get a good look at the man who entered.

Phil Coulson looks nothing like Grant expected, and yet he’s as familiar as his own face. Despite the strict look on his face and the hard set of his eyes, there’s a feeling of _contentment_ that surrounds this man. Like he’s perfectly happy and fine in his own skin. There’s anger in the way he speaks and looks and drags furniture around, yes, but it’s not the deep-seated hatred and rage that’s present in the Coulson he knows in his own _whatever_.

He looks like the uncle Phil he remembers, if slightly older and greyer, giving him a fatherly look. It’s not at all like the man who calls himself ‘Mindhunter’ and who has been terrorizing his life for over 4 years.

Shock must register on his face.

“Surprised to see me? Well, that makes two of us. I’m pretty sure I remember leaving you for dead on that godforsaken planet a few months back. Then again, that’s not the only thing that’s surprised me about you today.”

He opens the manila folder he’d been carrying and starts reading.

“You were in pretty bad shape when you arrived here. Like you’d been run over by a truck or something. Several broken ribs, bruises and cuts all over your body. An abdomen that had slowly started to fill with blood. Frankly, it’s a miracle you made it here from New York in one piece.”

Coulson flips a page.

“Not to mention the injuries that had been healed already. 6 fully healed GSWs, two in the right shoulder, one in the left, 2 in the back and one to the gut. You must have a brilliant medical team for you to survive all these injuries. And I’ve not even mentioned the dozens of stab and slice wounds that litter your body. Or the broken bones that have healed over.”

It’s unnerving, to hear all those injuries listed like that, but it’s not like he’s forgotten any of the many scars that mar his skin.

“But it’s what you don’t have that’s most puzzling to me. The neat little cluster of bullet wounds that one of my agents put into your side. The laceration on your left forearm, where you used folded-up paper to cut your wrist. The crushed ribcage I’m damn well sure you had, considering I’m the one that crushed it.”

A sigh.

“My team has assured me that there are no signs of surgery to get rid of any of the scars that we would have expected you to have. The injuries you have sustained before, are well and truly healed, and at least several years old. The wounds that are still fresh seem to indicate you’ve been in a multiple-assailant brawl.”

Another flip of the page, another sigh.

“So, with all that, there’s only one question I have at this moment.”

Grants looks up expectantly.

“ _Who_ are you?”


End file.
